Mimi Rosen is the daughter of Holocaust survivors, who has spent her childhood listening to stories about her
family's experiences during The War. While writing has always been one of her great joys, her work as an
early intervention teacher and her role as a single parent have provided distractions from perfecting her craft.
Recently, her daughter's departure for college and a move to Upstate New York has given Mimi the gift of
time. She now lives with her new husband and two dogs on a quiet mountain lake, where she spends time
reading, writing and enjoying life.
family's experiences during The War. While writing has always been one of her great joys, her work as an
early intervention teacher and her role as a single parent have provided distractions from perfecting her craft.
Recently, her daughter's departure for college and a move to Upstate New York has given Mimi the gift of
time. She now lives with her new husband and two dogs on a quiet mountain lake, where she spends time
reading, writing and enjoying life.
Extra-ordinary Man
A butterfly lay dead near the wood steps of the barracks. Its velvet wings, orange and black, with three rows of white spots,
tilted against the ash color earth. I consider embodying the creature, stealing its place on the frigid ground. All this death is
frost to the spirit, but it is better not to think such things. Besides, I have protection, a small parchment tucked under my
tongue on which I inscribed the true name of God.
"Who is speaking?" the SS officer snaps. He crisply halts, enlarging his chest and scanning the faces in each row. His eyes are
amber like a jackal's.
I'm not frightened. I shiver because I'm naked and it's cold. I'm standing, within a column of camp Jews, between the
prisoner's barracks and east watchtower. Men and women, frozen with obedience, watch the ground as if doing so could
blanket them.
Only God can save them. I pray to him constantly. Barely audible chants, not intended to offend, but which manage to
disturb the jackal eyed officer nevertheless. He scans the rows of prisoners as if on a hunt. His black boots wear a path
behind the white-coated physicians, who unfold their tables before each human column.
***
"Open," one physician says. He reminds me of a goat. A gray and black beard elongates his chin. He adjusts his spectacles
then pulls on Yossele's lips, revealing the carcasses of his remaining teeth. "You're sick," he says.
"No sir, I'm strong like a horse," Yossele coughs.
"This one's useless," the physician says.
A young soldier goosesteps towards them. He shoves Yossele into the group of ailing prisoners. Yossele's ashen tone
deepens under the blue-eyed soldier's stare.
The doctor leans over the table and scribbles. He looks up as the next prisoner steps forward. "Open," he says. His
methodical touch reminds me of father, who once examined a speckled horse with similar efficiency.
Father had been a respected teacher and gifted storyteller. His stories filled me with the power of God and the greatness of
those who believe. Before the war, Yossele and I would spend Shabbos afternoons seated at our father's feet. Father's
grainy voice still vibrates through me. Long ago, it had spirited me from our shtetle to places where extra-ordinary men
experienced wondrous miracles. Now, only one story reverberates through my head, the tale of Rabbi Judah Loew and the
Golem. Rabbi Loew once molded a giant man from clay and placed the name of God in its mouth. And so the Golem lived and
served as protector.
These camp Jews deserve protection too. I can protect them, because I myself am extra-ordinary. I whisper the prayer that
Rabbi Loew used to breathe life into the Golem over and over, believing it will transform me. And so I will become a super man
and deliver these Jews from this barbed wire camp.
"Who is mumbling?" the officer snaps, scanning the crowd of down turned faces.
"Solomon sha!" Yossele whispers, his icicle fingers draping his testicles.
He's close enough, within his ashy group, for me to shield when the time comes. The parchment jabs the inside of my cheek.
I shift it to the other side of my mouth and continue to chant softly, bracing for the miracle.
I am extra-ordinary. I see what others can't, like smoldering faces within piles of embers. I know that the ashes of each Jew
in camp will eventually form such a pile, but it is better not to think such things.
"Is it you I hear?" the jackal eyed officer asks.
"No sir," Yossele says.
"Then, who is mumbling?"
I am the jackal's accomplice. Each day, corpses are piled before me and I shovel them into flame-licked ovens. It is blistering
work, but if not me, someone else would be assigned to it. This work would engulf lesser men in madness. I've learned how
to insulate from insanity. I avoid looking at faces, but then my eyes sometimes betray me. The sight of father once singed
my mind that way.
If my eyelids had remained together, if my eyes had looked at only what was necessary, his vision would not have afflicted me.
Now, father's face relentlessly smolders before me. I try not to think of him, but my mind won't pardon me. His slender
mouth has become one with the pale lips of each man I've set aflame. His limbs have become tangled within each mound of
floppy arms and legs. My mind persistently relives that moment. It won't acquit me from my sins.
Other camp Jews know what I have done. I can tell by their shifting glances. I can hear it in their thoughts. They meekly await
their fates, while loathing the jackal's accomplice.
"Silence!" the officer barks. "I think you know which Jew is buzzing."
"I... I... I don't know, s-sir," Yossele says.
The young soldiers in the background laugh as the officer brandishes his pistol at Yossele. Fresh blond faces with wicked
smiles. Their cold rifles loose in hand.
Yossele fears guns, but I'm not afraid. I could seize a rifle and shoot one smiling soldier after another. I am extra-ordinary
that way.
"Shall I shoot this Jew?" the officer says, pointing his pistol at Yossele.
"The time has come," God whispers and my voice rises in prayer. The officer turns, but I lunge before he realizes who I am,
sinking my fangs into his gruff face. Blood fills my mouth. I yank the pistol from his hand and fire. The officer grunts and falls.
Blood spreads across his black shirt.
Something strikes the side of my head. A metallic taste fills my mouth. I tumble then lay motionless on the ash color earth.
Yossele's eyes are on me. They remind me of father's. The jackal-eyed officer twists on the ground. His screams vibrate
through me.
I am transforming. Steamy blood oozes between my cheek and the earth. It spreads like a glistening pool. I move the
parchment to the back of my tongue and swallow. It curls within my throat. I resist the urge to cough.
I see father and surrender to his vision. He appears in a warm aura, caressing my face. "Forgive me," I whisper. I reach for
him. He grasps my hand. Then I realize it is Yoselle's hand holding mine.
"You're not guilty of anything, Solomon," he says, bringing his lips to my ear. He softly chants the Sh'ma.
I am shrinking. My soul flutters and my body willingly releases it. It emerges as a butterfly with crystal wings that lift me
above this barbed wire camp.
A butterfly lay dead near the wood steps of the barracks. Its velvet wings, orange and black, with three rows of white spots,
tilted against the ash color earth. I consider embodying the creature, stealing its place on the frigid ground. All this death is
frost to the spirit, but it is better not to think such things. Besides, I have protection, a small parchment tucked under my
tongue on which I inscribed the true name of God.
"Who is speaking?" the SS officer snaps. He crisply halts, enlarging his chest and scanning the faces in each row. His eyes are
amber like a jackal's.
I'm not frightened. I shiver because I'm naked and it's cold. I'm standing, within a column of camp Jews, between the
prisoner's barracks and east watchtower. Men and women, frozen with obedience, watch the ground as if doing so could
blanket them.
Only God can save them. I pray to him constantly. Barely audible chants, not intended to offend, but which manage to
disturb the jackal eyed officer nevertheless. He scans the rows of prisoners as if on a hunt. His black boots wear a path
behind the white-coated physicians, who unfold their tables before each human column.
***
"Open," one physician says. He reminds me of a goat. A gray and black beard elongates his chin. He adjusts his spectacles
then pulls on Yossele's lips, revealing the carcasses of his remaining teeth. "You're sick," he says.
"No sir, I'm strong like a horse," Yossele coughs.
"This one's useless," the physician says.
A young soldier goosesteps towards them. He shoves Yossele into the group of ailing prisoners. Yossele's ashen tone
deepens under the blue-eyed soldier's stare.
The doctor leans over the table and scribbles. He looks up as the next prisoner steps forward. "Open," he says. His
methodical touch reminds me of father, who once examined a speckled horse with similar efficiency.
Father had been a respected teacher and gifted storyteller. His stories filled me with the power of God and the greatness of
those who believe. Before the war, Yossele and I would spend Shabbos afternoons seated at our father's feet. Father's
grainy voice still vibrates through me. Long ago, it had spirited me from our shtetle to places where extra-ordinary men
experienced wondrous miracles. Now, only one story reverberates through my head, the tale of Rabbi Judah Loew and the
Golem. Rabbi Loew once molded a giant man from clay and placed the name of God in its mouth. And so the Golem lived and
served as protector.
These camp Jews deserve protection too. I can protect them, because I myself am extra-ordinary. I whisper the prayer that
Rabbi Loew used to breathe life into the Golem over and over, believing it will transform me. And so I will become a super man
and deliver these Jews from this barbed wire camp.
"Who is mumbling?" the officer snaps, scanning the crowd of down turned faces.
"Solomon sha!" Yossele whispers, his icicle fingers draping his testicles.
He's close enough, within his ashy group, for me to shield when the time comes. The parchment jabs the inside of my cheek.
I shift it to the other side of my mouth and continue to chant softly, bracing for the miracle.
I am extra-ordinary. I see what others can't, like smoldering faces within piles of embers. I know that the ashes of each Jew
in camp will eventually form such a pile, but it is better not to think such things.
"Is it you I hear?" the jackal eyed officer asks.
"No sir," Yossele says.
"Then, who is mumbling?"
I am the jackal's accomplice. Each day, corpses are piled before me and I shovel them into flame-licked ovens. It is blistering
work, but if not me, someone else would be assigned to it. This work would engulf lesser men in madness. I've learned how
to insulate from insanity. I avoid looking at faces, but then my eyes sometimes betray me. The sight of father once singed
my mind that way.
If my eyelids had remained together, if my eyes had looked at only what was necessary, his vision would not have afflicted me.
Now, father's face relentlessly smolders before me. I try not to think of him, but my mind won't pardon me. His slender
mouth has become one with the pale lips of each man I've set aflame. His limbs have become tangled within each mound of
floppy arms and legs. My mind persistently relives that moment. It won't acquit me from my sins.
Other camp Jews know what I have done. I can tell by their shifting glances. I can hear it in their thoughts. They meekly await
their fates, while loathing the jackal's accomplice.
"Silence!" the officer barks. "I think you know which Jew is buzzing."
"I... I... I don't know, s-sir," Yossele says.
The young soldiers in the background laugh as the officer brandishes his pistol at Yossele. Fresh blond faces with wicked
smiles. Their cold rifles loose in hand.
Yossele fears guns, but I'm not afraid. I could seize a rifle and shoot one smiling soldier after another. I am extra-ordinary
that way.
"Shall I shoot this Jew?" the officer says, pointing his pistol at Yossele.
"The time has come," God whispers and my voice rises in prayer. The officer turns, but I lunge before he realizes who I am,
sinking my fangs into his gruff face. Blood fills my mouth. I yank the pistol from his hand and fire. The officer grunts and falls.
Blood spreads across his black shirt.
Something strikes the side of my head. A metallic taste fills my mouth. I tumble then lay motionless on the ash color earth.
Yossele's eyes are on me. They remind me of father's. The jackal-eyed officer twists on the ground. His screams vibrate
through me.
I am transforming. Steamy blood oozes between my cheek and the earth. It spreads like a glistening pool. I move the
parchment to the back of my tongue and swallow. It curls within my throat. I resist the urge to cough.
I see father and surrender to his vision. He appears in a warm aura, caressing my face. "Forgive me," I whisper. I reach for
him. He grasps my hand. Then I realize it is Yoselle's hand holding mine.
"You're not guilty of anything, Solomon," he says, bringing his lips to my ear. He softly chants the Sh'ma.
I am shrinking. My soul flutters and my body willingly releases it. It emerges as a butterfly with crystal wings that lift me
above this barbed wire camp.
Mimi Rosen
